Child of The Winter Night
by Bellamyy
Summary: As a child, Christine Daae believed that the Angel of Music had been sent from heaven to teach her to sing. But what of love? EC, ALWMovie based
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of The Opera, or the lyrics below which belong to Michelle Branch.

_Child of The Winter Night_

Prologue

_Turn it inside out so I can see  
The part of you that's drifting over me..._

_The Opera Populaire, Paris, 1865_

"Papa, I met an angel today..."

Her little hands folded across her chest reverently, Christine Daaè , eleven years old, spoke softly to the ceiling of the ballet dormitory.

"I was frightened, at first. I thought I was alone. But then, I heard a voice...oh papa, it was a beautiful voice, and it sang to me! He told me not to cry, and that I wasn't alone-- that he had been there watching over me ever since I had arrived from our little house by the sea. "

She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, before settling back into her previous position.

"I wish you could answer, papa. I wanted you to know how much I love your angel-- your angel of music. He is gentle, and kind. He sings to me when I can't sleep at night, and only I can hear him. I think he is a bit shy..."

The tears were drying on her round cheeks, and as she rubbed her eyes a yawn eclipsed the words she had been trying to say. Her grief was waning for the moment, and her eyes blinked heavily with the need to sleep.

"Thank you for sending me such a beautiful friend, papa. I promise to look after him..."

Her face became red as she bit her lip once more, a new well of tears rising up at the thought that although she spoke her father's name, his arms, his smile would not appear to her. She drew the blankets up around her shoulders, sniffling as she tried to close her eyes. But the empty space in her chest was throbbing painfully, and she found herself wishing beyond hope that her father, her mother...was there with her.

She wished more than anything...

That she had someone to say goodnight to. Someone who would wrap her in their arms and kiss her goodnight.

As she sobbed quietly, a flicker ignited within the depths of her imagination. An angel, its downy wings spread softly around her, holding her within his arms.

And then, she heard it.

Softly, as though mingled with the sweet summer breeze that blew just outside her window, a voice was singing...

Christine... Christine...

Its melody wrapped around her trembling limbs, making them feel warm and relaxed. The voice wove melodies above her head, so close now that she could swear he was whispering into her ear.

My heart, my little one...

Christine felt herself falling deeper into the darkness of sleep, her tears subsided, only a floating feeling and the surety of his song permeating her consciousness.

I am here...

Your angel is here...

She slept deeply and soundly, never knowing that while she dreamt, there was a man who wondered what she saw.


	2. 1: The Staircase

Disclaimer: _I do not own Phantom of The Opera, but I do own the small excerpt below the chapter title. Thank you to those who reviewed!_

**Chapter One: The Staircase**

Into the darkness it winds and bends

Tempting, waiting

Without sanity, without end

The Basement of the Opera Populaire, 1867

The torch flickered hesitantly.

Her footsteps echoing within the stone corridor, she prayed silently that _this _time, things would be different. Raising her sensible skirts to keep them from the damp, she wound her way expertly through the labyrinth of small archways and corridors which led to the single most place she dreaded going.

Madame Giry looked down the winding stone staircase, and tried for the hundredth time that day to justify what she was about to do.

He is only a boy...

But even before the thought had surfaced fully in her mind her heart was already shouting out in protest.

He was _not _a boy anymore. He must be at least twenty-six by now, she reflected with a trace of pride. ..and unease.

Stepping down the stone stairs, Madame Giry held the torch out before her to light the way. Darkness permeated the air like the dampness, and the torch flames struggled against it to keep from extinguishing.

How long had it been since she could remember walking down these steps with ease, her voice calm and clear as she hummed, and then waited...

...waited until she heard a tentative, equally clear voice hum the melody back to her?

Most days, he would already be waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, his body seeming to grow out from the shadows. Madame Giry had always looked forwards to their visits-- she would bring him a new pair of trousers, a silken vest... his favorite dessert from a cafe in Paris not far from the Opera house. Painting supplies, books, music sheets, a broken instrument from the orchestra which he delighted in fixing and then playing for her...

Some days, he even had gifts ready for her as well.

He had loved playing hide and seek, disappearing it seemed from the world and causing Madame Giry to nearly topple over in fright as he threw his voice into different parts of the chamber in which they visited.

He had laughed enthusiastically, always revealing himself when she cried out for him to stop being a 'ghost' and to start being a 'boy' again.

He even began to regale her with small magic tricks, his hands winding illusions nimbly instead of shaking almost uncontrollably nearly all the time. His act of violence against the man who had kept him a prisoner had left him irreversibly shy to the touch. He could never reach out to her in a moment of child-like need-- lest he then shrink away from her as if afraid his touch might burn her.

Poor, earnest Erik.

What had happened to the boy whom she could delight with such simple things?

Her hands were cold, and she ignored their insistent tingling as she reached the middle of the staircase. Her throat felt dry, like parched paper. Carefully, she hummed the melody that was so familiar, and waited.

The torch flames broke apart as a chilled breeze swept up the stair case, carrying with it the strains of a much deeper voice who repeated her phrase precisely.

Without indulging the sudden chill in her bones, Madame Giry climbed the rest of the way down the stairs and held the torch in front of her weary eyes. Beginning to believe that he had not come after all, and that she had merely imagined his reply, she did not betray any trace of the shock she felt as he suddenly appeared in the wake of the torch flame.

On his tall frame hung a thread bare black suit, the same suit he always wore when in his home.

It was a suit Madame Giry had sewn herself for him, many years ago for his birthday. He had asked her that year about birthdays. He asked her if he had one, and she had told him of course he did. From that day forward, she always remembered that day to have a special gift ready for him, and to wish him many happy returns. She had hoped it would make him feel like he had some normal connection with the outside world-- but then, Erik was never what one would describe as 'normal'.

"You look thin, Erik. Are you not eating well?"

He straightened himself, the musty cravat at his throat frayed, but still pinned to his vest with the utmost care and consideration.

He did not answer her at first, but simply took the torch from her gently and hung it beside them, the flames bathing them in a pool of light which bore no warmth. This was where they visited now, in a small circle of firelight. She had not been into his home in years.

"I am well, Madame." he said quietly, though she could clearly see that his suit hung unnaturally flat against his bony chest.

"You cannot live on little pieces of paper, Erik." Madame Giry said sternly, her unease forgotten for the moment as she lifted her hand which clutched square folds of parchment. His eyes flickered to them almost hungrily, but his expression remained carefully passive.

"Perhaps we have different views regarding what it is to live, Madame."

His statement could not have been more final if he had physically cut through her resolve with a knife.

Her boldness abashed, Madame Giry hid her displeasure and continued as if nothing had just transpired, careful to guard the hurt tone in her voice.

"I am sure you are very busy, Erik. I won't keep you. I have brought this weeks accounts and will inform you of any other amendments as they come to me."

He nodded distantly as she handed him the papers. Wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, she stood and waited for him to hand her the torch to light her way back up into the Opera house. Yet he did not move, but stood staring at the papers in his gloved hands as if they were saying something extremely troublesome to him. Madame Giry felt a pang of pity for him. The way he stood now, tall frame bent forwards, head bowed, he looked just as he did when he had been a young boy, upset and unbearably silent when it came time for her to leave.

Still staring at the papers, Erik's voice was tinged with hope as he asked her, "Did you gather the information I require?"

Madame Giry felt her heart soften.

"Yes, Erik. It's all there for you. Do you wish me to--"

"No, no. I do not require your assistance any further. I shall handle matters from here myself."

Madame Giry nodded. She would not interfere with his business. She was sure that whatever the information she had gathered meant, it was obviously important enough for him to wish to peruse it further personally. The torch light was suddenly upon her, as Erik held it up above her head. He was so much taller than she was now, that her head barely reached his shoulders. Turning, he escorted her back to the staircase in amiable, if not necessary silence.

"Then I shall come visit you again soon," she said once they had reached the threshold.

"Until then, Madame." he answered, handing her the torch.

Words that hung in her mind, waiting to be said remained untouched. He was no longer a child. They could no longer pretend that the worlds they lived could be brought together by games and magic.

Saddened once more, and knowing that what she had truly wanted to say would go unsaid yet again, Madame Giry bowed her head and turned to make her decent up the stairs. She knew he would watch her until she had disappeared from the basement-- and for his attentive protectiveness she would always be grateful.

But she was an older woman now. It was not herself she feared for.

Unbidden, her thoughts swirled about in her mind, locked away from even Erik's knowing skills.

She is just a child, Erik.

You cannot save her from the world, they way I tried to save you.

And if you try, you will lose her forever.


End file.
